


Turboencabulator Trouble

by Isis



Category: Car Talk (Radio Show), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Crack Crossover, Gen, Humor, I don't know why James Bond is in Montana either, Ridiculous Invented Car Parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22659169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: “Hello, you’re on Car Talk,” said a man with a strong Boston accent.“This is James Bond,” he said.  “I’m currently in a rather heavy snowstorm on an unpaved road somewhere in Montana.”
Comments: 28
Kudos: 54
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Turboencabulator Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tablelamp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tablelamp/gifts).



> Your prompt made me giggle! And, don't drive like my brother.
> 
> Thanks to thisbluespirit for Britpick, and for inadvertently giving me the 'engine' joke.

The snowstorm that had been threatening all morning hit with a vengeance in the afternoon. The rural highway had been ploughed, albeit poorly, but when Bond, following the instructions he’d been given, turned off between two trees onto an unmarked dirt road, the Aston Martin’s rear tyres lost traction, and the front end drifted alarmingly to the side. Well, it would be alarming for anyone other than James Bond, who let up on the accelerator, flipped open the centre arm rest to expose the weapons controls, and hit the traction switch to enable the ice spikes.

Nothing happened. The car continued its sideways slide, coming to rest gently against a snowdrift. The radio, which had been playing classical music, switched to news. A cheery American voice informed him that heavy snow was expected to continue until at least the next morning.

“Damn,” said Bond. He got out of the car and promptly sunk into the snow to mid-shin, doubtless ruining his fine Foster & Son shoes. A quick inspection showed that the ice spikes had indeed failed to deploy. Back in the car, he pulled out his mobile, but of course there was no reception, this far into the back of America’s beyond. Fortunately, the auxiliary aerial unfolded with a press of the appropriate button.

Unfortunately, Q did not pick up the phone. 

Bond did the calculation in his head. Ah, of course – it was nearly midnight in London, and a weekend besides. He checked his instructions again. The cabin where he was to meet his contact was a bit far for walking, though he did have his boots in his luggage. It was a pity he hadn’t given in to his instincts and rented a Jeep at the airport, but Q had been so proud of his modifications to this car, and after all, MI6 had had it shipped to the States at what must have been an astronomical cost.

The newscast ended, and music began to play. It was nothing like the Sibelius that had been on the station before; this was twangy, and somewhat cheesy, and at the end of a short passage a male voice announced: “Hello and welcome to Car Talk on National Public Radio, with us, Click and Clack, the Tappet Brothers. We’re broadcasting this week from….”

Bond frowned and turned up the volume. These “Click and Clack” people appeared to own an automotive garage, which was precisely what he needed. Odd that they were making jokes on the radio, rather than actually working on cars. Perhaps this was a weekend hobby of theirs?

And then one of them – the one with the marginally less-annoying laugh – said, “Got a problem? Give us a call. 888-Car Talk, that’s 888-227-eight-two fifty-five.”

He supposed he had nothing to lose. He punched the number into his mobile.

A recorded voice informed him he’d reached ‘Car Talk’, and asked for his name and location. Feeling a bit foolish, he said: “My name is Bond – James Bond – and I’m currently somewhere in –”

A different voice cut in. “Oh, they’re gonna love this. You know the drill, right? When Ray answers, lead with who you’re claiming to be and where you are. Oh, and turn off your radio, don’t want the feedback effect. Hang on a moment.”

“Who I’m _claiming_ to be?” he said, but that cheesy music was playing, and he supposed he was on hold. He turned off the radio and listened to the hold music for several minutes, then:

“Hello, you’re on Car Talk,” said a man with a strong Boston accent.

“This is James Bond,” he said. “I’m currently in a rather heavy snowstorm on an unpaved road somewhere in Montana.”

A pair of guffaws answered him. “Bond!” said the man who had said hello – he supposed it was Click. Or – what was it the man who had intercepted the call had said? Ray, that was it.

“James Bond!” said the second voice. That must be Clack. “So, Bond James Bond! What’s wrong with the Rolls Royce?”

“Come on, he hasn’t driven a Rolls since the Roger Moore era. What is it now? BMW? Aston Martin?”

“Aston Martin V8 Vantage,” Bond admitted, bemused. How did these fellows know what cars he drove?

“Fine car,” said Click approvingly. “Though maybe not for Montana in a snowstorm!” He snorted. “Shoulda rented a Jeep.”

“Well, yes,” said Bond. “When I turned off the asphalt, I went into quite the uncontrolled skid.”

“I’m sure you were shaken!” said Clack.

“But not stirred!” Click added, and both men laughed uproariously. “All right, Bond James Bond. As I recall, your man Q –“

“Quentin?” asked Clack. “Quirrel?”

“That’s from Harry Potter,” said Click. “Quincy, Mass?”

Bond failed to see what was so funny, but again, both men laughed. “Okay, so don’t you got a winterisation package on that baby? Hardtop, snow tires – ”

“Outrigger skis, tire spikes – ”

“Rocket motor, self-destruct – ”

“Better not try that last one,” Click advised him. 

“At least not while you’re still in the car,” added Clack.

Bond frowned. Cautiously he asked, “Yes, this model’s been outfitted with all of those things, but – how do you know about them?”

“Let’s just say we’ve been big fans for ages,” said Click. “Plus, we love cars.”

“Which obviously you do not, considering how many you’ve wrecked!” Both of them guffawed again. “So, why didn’t you use the tire spikes?”

“I pushed the button,” said Bond. “The spikes failed to engage.”

“Oh, _now_ we’re getting somewhere. I mean, _you’re_ not getting anywhere, but I have an idea. It sounds like your spurving bearings are kaput.” 

“Do those models have spurving bearings? I think it’s the turboencabulator.” He laughed again. It was, thought Bond, a terribly grating sort of laughter. 

“Nah, that controls the wheel lasers,” said – Click? Clack? He couldn’t tell them apart.

“It might be the freezlestat.”

“Yeah, the freezlestat’s a definite possibility.”

“But it could be the ambifacient waneshaft!” said one, wheezing with laughter.

“Or the – the – panametric fan!”

“Gentlemen,” said Bond. “I appreciate your many hypotheses, but the problem remains. I am stuck in the middle of nowhere, and I’ve an appointment to keep. Could you kindly advise me on how to get the ice spikes onto my tires?”

“Okay, okay,” said Click, or maybe Clack. He was still laughing. “You’re gonna need to lift the hood.”

“The bonnet,” said the other. “British people call it a bonnet.”

“Whatever. You lift the bonnet and look just behind the engine.”

“Or as the British people say, behind the engine.” 

“You should see the fromulator just next to the semi-boloid girdlesprings. Give it one-quarter turn to the right. Wait, it’s a right-hand drive, isn’t it. Make that one-quarter turn to the left.”

“Fromulator, girdlesprings, one-quarter turn to the left,” repeated Bond. He had no idea what they were talking about. It was rather like listening to Q, if Q were twins from Boston.

“You should be at the casino in time to meet the pretty girl,” said one.

“Who probably works for the bad guy,” said the other. “But you’ll figure it out. Good luck!”

“What casino?” said Bond, but the line had gone dead. He had a vague suspicion that they’d been having him on, but what choice did he have? Sighing, he unzipped his duffel bag and took out the pair of Sorel boots he'd packed, and a pair of thick socks. Might as well dress properly for the occasion. 

The sun had set while he’d been talking to the Tappet brothers, so he took the torch from the glove box and opened the car door. It was snowing a little less vigorously than it had been earlier, which was a relief. He went around to the front of the car, lifted the bonnet, and shined the torch behind the large V-8 engine. The beam of light played over mysterious coils, tubes, metal boxes, rubber belts...and then a rubber-coated cross-handle protruding from a metal box, with what appeared to be, inexplicably, a strip of white electrical tape with Q’s meticulous handwriting on it: 

**FROMULATOR**

“Oh,” said Bond weakly. He reached out and turned the handle one-quarter turn to the left. A hollow ping sounded from somewhere under the chassis.

He got back into the car and flipped the traction switch. He was rewarded with a soft grinding noise, and an indicator light next to the switch turned a cheery green. Cautiously he shifted the stick into reverse and engaged the transmission; the Aston Martin obediently reversed away from the snowdrift, and soon he was on the dirt road, driving toward the cabin. Checking his watch, he smiled to himself. Provided nothing else went wrong, he’d make the rendezvous with a few minutes to spare.

He’d have to get Moneypenny to send a thank-you note to those Click and Clack chaps, he decided. Evidently they had known what they were about, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turboencabulator

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Turboencabulator Trouble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681611) by [ffg_podfics (flowersforgraves)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/pseuds/ffg_podfics)




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